


Diligence

by Cheloya



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Old, imported. It turns out what Vesca knows about Dee - Count D - is a whole lot of nothing.





	Diligence

He'd discovered there was a case, an actual _case_ , about six weeks ago, and since then, he'd dedicated a good bit of his free time - all right, _all_ of his free time - to reading up on the corresponding files.

And they weren't so much files as long lists of related murders and the dead ends that every single agent had encountered, almost the instant inquiries had been made. A name. A date. A statement. And occasionally, a photocopied contract with two signatures at the bottom - one belonging to the deceased, and one that Vesca had seen on every single assignment a certain transfer student had ever handed in; a single, elegant swirl of Xerox'd ink in the shape of a capital 'd'.

In the third folder, there'd been a news clipping. A black and white photograph. It wasn't the best shot, but there was sure as hell no mistaking it, not for him, not for someone who'd known Dee - no, just D, _Count_ D - as well as he had.

Thought he had. The clipping was in German; he couldn't make out too much of it, but someone - a Special Agent Wulfe - had thoughtfully typed up a translation, and written down the publication details.

He'd spent twenty minutes staring helplessly between the date and the photograph, and then he'd gone down to the carpark and climbed into his car and he'd nearly wrapped himself around a power pole three times before he abandoned the driving idea and just found the nearest pub and ordered vodka until he didn't have anything left in his wallet to order it with.

When he'd thrown up and sobered up and taken a shower, he'd sat down at his desk and written down a list of all the attributes that usually went on a criminal profile.

He'd stared at it for a long time, then started filling in the things he knew about Count D, the serial killer, the _fucking serial killer_ who'd been his goddamn...

He'd filled in 'race', 'hair' and 'eyes', and even taken a stab at 'height' and 'weight', and then his forehead had kissed the desk with a violent sort of thud as his hand had filled in his certainties of the other attributes - a whole lot of nothing. Hyphens. Dashes. Blanks.

He didn't even have to look at it. He knew _nothing_ about Count D, nothing at all.

But he knew people; knew people who knew just as little as he did. Knew people who'd have _records_. Knew people who'd have security footage.

If he wanted to, he could help find him. Find Count D. Find the man who'd left behind nothing but a delighted, somewhat bewildered professor, and a lab coat that still smelled of cinnamon and lucern.

His fingers were creeping over the receiver before he'd even properly thought about it; he was halfway through dialling a number before he thought better of it, let go of the phone.

If they thought he'd been involved, they'd take him off the case. He had to approach this quietly, subtly. He had to take his time. This couldn't be a hundred meter dash, 'cause Dee could win those, if he wanted to. The thing he lacked was staying power, which was something Vesca had in bucketloads, in fucking _spades_ \--

He'd get to the bottom of this if it killed him.


End file.
